The Egyptian Cat
The reception for Dr. Hayret Ahmed was at the home of an Egyptian
importer named Mohammed Bartouki. Barby, the boys, and Winston rang the
bell of a brownstone house on New York's Upper East Side promptly at
noon.
Winston had checked with his host by phone, and his request that he be
allowed to bring his young associates to meet Bartouki had been met with
enthusiastic pleasure. Mohammed Bartouki had assured the scientist that
he would look forward to meeting the young people of Dr. Hartson Brant's
household.
The door was opened by a figure right out of _The Arabian Nights_, or so
it seemed to the young people. The doorman was a huge Negro dressed in
flowing red trousers that tucked in at the ankles. His sandals turned up
in points at the front, Persian style. An embroidered vest set off a
loose white silk shirt, and on his head was a red fez, shaped like a
section of a cone, slightly less in diameter at the top than at the
bottom.
"Please come in," he requested. His voice was accented. Rick saw that he
had two horizontal hairline scars on each cheek.
The man took their coats, giving Barby a courtly bow. "Dr. Bartouki asks
if you will please join him in the salon. It is straight ahead."
As they walked down the carpeted hall Barby gave Winston a smile of
sheer delight. "He's right out of a movie," she whispered. "Even to the
fez and the scars on his cheeks."
Winston smiled back. "In Egypt a fez is called a _tarboosh_. The scars
mean he is a Sudanese, from the country south of Egypt. I agree he's a
very picturesque type. I suspect Bartouki dressed him up for effect.
It's a common practice."
"What's Bartouki a doctor of?" Rick asked.
"I don't know. Law or something similar, I imagine. He's not a scientist
or medical doctor."
Mohammed Bartouki himself came to meet them. He was a round little man,
scarcely taller than Barby, with twinkling eyes behind horn-rimmed
glasses. He was dressed in an ordinary business suit.
"My dear Dr. Winston, how nice of you to come. And these are your young
friends?"
Winston introduced the young people. Rick found his hand captured in a
warm, firm grip.
"Welcome, welcome," Bartouki said, beaming. "We will have an opportunity
to talk about your trip to my country as soon as these scientists turn
the conversation to some matter of science we do not understand." He
smiled at Winston. "You see, I know you professional people. The
nationality does not matter. Put two of you together and the
conversation at once turns to some development a poor merchant cannot
possibly comprehend. That is why I am glad you brought Miss Barbara, and
Rick and Scotty, as you called them, if I may be so familiar. At least I
can talk with them."
Rick could see that Barby was charmed by the little merchant, and he
could understand why. Bartouki radiated warmth and enthusiasm.
In a moment the four Spindrifters were being introduced to Dr. Hayret
Ahmed and a bewildering assortment of people. Evidently they were all
scientists of different nationalities, except for two officers of the
United Arab Republic consulate. Rick recognized a few of the names, and
found he knew one or two of the Americans.
True to Bartouki's prediction, the talk turned to scientific subjects
within minutes. Rick followed the conversation, which was about a new
development in the capture and study of free radicals, but only for a
few minutes. The scientists were over his head in short order.
Scotty chuckled. "I always thought a free radical was a political bomb
thrower out of jail."
"It's a highly energetic chemical particle," Rick said.
"That's nice," Barby said. "Only I'd rather talk with Dr. Bartouki than
discuss energetic chemicals."
The merchant arranged things very smoothly. He announced that he would
not dream of allowing protocol to interfere with such a fascinating
conversation, and put the scientists together at one end of the table.
The officers from the consulate, evidently in deference to the
distinguished Egyptian scientist, continued to listen closely to the
talk, even though Rick was sure they didn't understand a word.
The three young people found themselves free to talk with their host,
and the boys at once began firing questions.
Bartouki described Cairo and promised that he would present them with
guidebooks to be read on the way over. He told them about things to do
in the ancient city, and listed places that were "musts" for tourists.
They included the step pyramid at Sakkarah, the Egyptian Museum, the
mosque of Sultan Hassan, and the mosque and college of El Azhar, founded
in the ninth century.
"Of course you will see a great deal of the Sphinx and the pyramids at
Giza, since our new radio telescope is nearby. But most of all, you must
see El Mouski."
"What is that?" Rick asked.
"It is the Cairo bazaar. There are several sections, known as _sooks_.
They have names like Khan El Khalili, Ghooriyeh, Sagha, Sook El
Nahassin, and so on, but the principal one is Mouski."
"Spell it for me," Barby pleaded.
Bartouki smiled. "What you ask is difficult. We use a different
alphabet, so there is no exact equivalent, only what is called
transliteration, which uses phonetics. So the bazaar can be Mouski,
Muski, Mosky, Mouskey, or anything else that sounds the same. Even for
Giza, where the pyramids are, there are many spellings."
"I wish you'd tell my English teacher that." Barby sighed. "I think my
way of spelling is just as good as hers."
Bartouki and the boys laughed sympathetically. The little merchant said,
"Whatever the spelling, El Mouski will fascinate you. Many things are
made there especially for tourists. Some of the workmanship is
excellent, and the prices are very low."
"We haven't had much luck with bazaars that cater to tourists," Scotty
replied. "We prefer markets where local people buy, because the things
are more authentic."
Bartouki chuckled. "That is wise, in most countries. But consider. The
attraction for tourists are things that are clearly Egyptian in origin,
no? Such things vanished from all but our museums some years ago. You
could not buy a genuine Egyptian tapestry, or a stone carving from a
tomb. Such things are beyond price. They are national treasures. But you
can buy very attractive and authentic reproductions."
"The people of Cairo wouldn't want reproductions, would they?" Barby
asked. "So they have to be made just for tourists."
"And for export," Bartouki added. "I import them myself for a few
American shops. After lunch I will show you samples and you will see."
It seemed reasonable to Rick when he thought about it. Genuine Egyptian
things simply were not obtainable. "What else is made for tourists?" he
queried.
"Many things, of gold, silver, and ivory. There are bags of camel
leather that Miss Barbara would enjoy having. There are brass goods of
all kinds, and copperware with a partial tin coating called washed tin."
The conversation paused long enough for a few bites of lunch, then
Bartouki resumed. "We try to take good care of tourists in the United
Arab Republic, both in Egypt and in Syria. For example, we license our
guide-interpreters, who are called _dragomen_. There is also a special
police force with no job but aid to tourists. And we are always looking
for ways to improve our reproductions to make them more attractive and
authentic. I will show you a new design."
By the time luncheon had ended, the talk among the scientists had
progressed to the basic theory of what physicists call "the solid
state." Even Rick, with his rapidly growing background of scientific
knowledge, could understand only fragments of conversation.
"Let them talk over their coffee," Bartouki said. "They are enjoying it.
We will retire to my den and I will show you examples from El Mouski."
The samples were everything Bartouki had promised. There were wall
hangings, beautifully made of tiny pieces of colored cloth appliqued on
a natural-color fabric, bags and pouches of leather, leather hassocks,
ivory carvings of ancient Egyptian gods, inlaid boxes and chests, and
dozens of both useful and ornamental utensils of brass, copper, washed
tin, and ceramics. Barby went into raptures. At every new item she urged
Rick to bring her one just like it.
"I'll rent a jet just to carry my luggage," he said, grinning. "You've
already ordered a ton, and I get only sixty-six pounds."
Bartouki came to his rescue. "Let me show you a new tourist attraction.
It just arrived by messenger this morning."
He went to a cabinet, opened it, and produced a stone cat. It was about
ten inches high, in a sitting position with its tail curled around to
meet its feet. It was of sandy texture, reddish in color.
"Sandstone?" Rick guessed.
Bartouki smiled. "I hoped you would say that. Here. Examine it."
Rick took the cat. He liked it very much. The design was clean and
elegant, stylized after the Egyptian manner. But it wasn't sandstone. It
was heavy, but not heavy enough to be sandstone, and the sheen was not
that of a mineral. Whatever the material, it had been fashioned in one
piece, probably cast in a mold.
"I give up," he said. "What is it?"
"Plastic," Bartouki replied, obviously pleased. "It did not come from
Egypt. It was made right here in America. In Chicago, to be exact. It is
what you call a prototype."
"But it's Egyptian in design," Barby protested. She took the cat from
Rick and examined it.
"Yes, it is clearly an Egyptian cat. The design came from Egypt, but the
cat from America. I have been working on this for months with a plastics
company. Now I have the model, and the method. We will reproduce these
in quantity in Cairo."
"It's pretty heavy for plastic," Rick commented.
"True. We put a piece of lead in the middle of the casting. You see, it
looks like stone, and the buyer will expect it to be heavy. So, for
psychological reasons, we give it weight--only not so much that it
becomes a problem to carry."
"You certainly have it worked out," Scotty said admiringly. "But why a
cat? Why not a ... a camel?"
"We have camels of camel leather, brass, and wood. But we do not have a
good cat. You see, the cat is important in Egyptian history. There was
even a cat goddess of the Upper Nile Kingdom, called Bubaste. In the
ancient tombs there are sometimes mummies of cats. Some cat lovers think
our land first developed the domestic strain of cat. So we believe
tourist cat lovers should have an authentic reproduction of one. This
particular cat is a faithful copy of an antique, which I am fortunate to
own."
"What will you do with it now?" Barby asked.
"Send it to my associate in Cairo, as soon as possible. I would like to
airmail it right away, but you Americans overload the mails at
Christmas, so it would be safer to wait. Next week I hope to send it
with full instructions, hoping to get production started in time for the
big tourist season. I wish it could go sooner. It is needed."
Barby said impulsively, "Rick leaves the day after tomorrow. He could
take it for you. Couldn't you, Rick?"
There was no reason to refuse. It was certainly a worthy project, and
Bartouki had been generous in answering their questions.
"Be glad to," Rick said.
The merchant's eyes lighted. "It would not be an imposition?"
"Of course not. I can put it right in with my clothes. I have plenty of
room."
"Believe me, I will be in your debt. And so will my associate, Ali
Moustafa. You will like him. He is a great, jolly man, three times my
size. If he had a beard, he would resemble your Santa Claus. And he will
insist that you accept some token of his appreciation. I will send the
instructions separately, so you need not bother with the technical
reports."
"I couldn't accept a gift for such a little thing," Rick protested. He
looked at the cat, now in Scotty's hands. It was a handsome little
statue.
"Ali Moustafa is a hard man to refuse," Bartouki said. "You should not
deprive him of the pleasure of making a gift. But I will not press you.
It will be between you and him. You are quite sure it will be no
trouble?"
Rick's words would return to haunt him during the days ahead. He said
blithely, "No trouble at all."